I was high up on the trail when I heard it.
An earthquake in the heavens.
Too far away to pin the source,
still fearful of the levins.
Wondering which way the change,
I waited for the breeze,
while hoping for some daylight
embedded in the trees.
But it was taking too long
to see if matters improved,
so taking a sip of water,
over rocks and root, I moved.
Moved towards the sound
of giants grumbling in the rain—
through the twists and turns,
the narrow paths of pain.
Winding my way up,
through caves and spiderwebs,
past rockslides and glades
where water no longer ebbs,
Until finally, I arrived,
where the mountain was spent,
and the trail came to reveal
the day’s firmament.
It was there that I saw
two worlds—
one of lingering warmth,
one of weather unfurled.
And looking out, caught
between sun and thunder,
I knew that with both,
no man can put asunder.
— ❧ —
Poems From the Peaks
This poem occurred to me when I was hiking on Mount Paugus in New Hampshire (though the images I used for this post are from Bolton Valley in Vermont!) On the Paugus hike, thunder rolled in for a bit and I grew concerned that the predicted rains were about to swallow me up. Instead, as I approached the summit, I found a beautiful sunny sky on one side, and a storm-filled one on the other. There was no rain at all, and it looked like two powerful forces were frozen in place by the other. There were too many trees to get a good picture of it, but the duality of the sky got me thinking…
This poem is one of a growing collection that I share at In Verse.